Apache Vendetta (14 page)

The hand was still on Fargo's arm. He angrily went to swat it away, but didn't.

It was Charity, her eyes brimming with tears, her mouth quivering. “Please,” she said. “Help us. My father. My brother.”

“What about them?”

Instead of answering, Charity tugged on his arm and again said, “Please. Come quickly.”

Reluctantly, Fargo let her pull him inside. He'd rather run to the Ovaro and light out after Skeeter and Pratt, even though the odds of finding them before daylight were slim. “What is it?”

“I don't know what to do,” Charity said, and it was obvious she was barely holding herself together. “My mother . . .” She didn't finish.

Patience Williams lay on the floor of the parlor. Her hands had been placed on her bosom and she looked as if she were at rest except for the hole where her left eye had been.

Beside her, slumped in shock, was Solomon. His eyes were half glazed and he didn't seem to be breathing.

On the other side of her, Isaiah blubbered, tears and snot trickling down his face. He kept mewing, “Ma! Ma! Ma!”

Fargo realized why the boy hadn't done anything when his friends raped Corn Flower. Isaiah Williams was a spineless jellyfish.

“What do I do?” Charity appealed to him. “They won't either of them say anything. Watch.” She took a breath. “Pa? Isaiah? We have to get hold of ourselves.”

The father went on blankly staring at his dead wife and the son went on wailing.

Charity smothered a sob of her own. “How do I bring them out of it?”

“Like this.” Fargo walked over to Solomon and smacked him across the face.

The blow rocked the farmer against the settee. Solomon blinked and shook his head and looked about him in confusion, saying, “What?”

Turning, Fargo bent and raised his arm to do the same to the son.

“Don't you dare!” Isaiah cried, and skittered out of reach.

Fargo's disgust knew no bounds. “Stop your damn bawling,” he growled.

“My ma is dead,” Isaiah exclaimed. “What else do you expect me to do?”

Charity was crying, too, but she wasn't putting on the display her brother was. “Please, Isaiah,” she said, hunkering beside him and placing her arm on his shoulder. “This isn't helping.”

“Leave me be,” Isaiah said, shrugging her off. With a sob, he moved to his mother and pressed his face to her shoulder.

Solomon was wiping his eyes with a sleeve. “Your sister is right, boy. This is unbecoming. Act like a man for once.”

“For once?” Fargo said.

Solomon coughed and his eyes watered but he didn't lose control. “He's always been like this. Any little thing would set him off. I've tried to get him to see that a man doesn't bawl his brains out when his cat dies or he breaks a finger when a bale of hay falls on it.” The father took a deep breath. “Patience used to say he was born with a sensitive nature. She always coddled him. But not me. It's why I thought it would be a good idea for him to go prospecting. To get out and see what the real world is like.”

Isaiah uttered a loud moan.

Fargo turned away. “I'll help with the bodies,” he offered.

“Bodies?”

“Heigstrom is on the porch.”

“Dear Lord. Not him too?” Solomon pushed to his feet and walked unsteadily out.

Fargo was going to follow but Charity clasped his hand.

“How long can you stay?”

“I aim to head out after those bastards at first light,” Fargo informed her.

“Good. I was hoping you'd say that. I'm worried Skeeter and Pratt might come back.”

Fargo didn't see why they would with him there, and said so.

“You don't know those two like I do. I never have liked them. Never have trusted them. They've always been after me to . . . you know.” Charity's face flared with anger. “Whenever Ma and Pa weren't around, they'd make lewd remarks. Especially that Skeeter Bodine. Now and then he'd even put his hands on me. Once I slapped him and do you know what he did? He laughed. What my brother saw in them, I'll never know.”

Insight flooded Fargo. Bodine hadn't befriended Isaiah Williams because he liked him. Bodine did it so he could get up Charity's dress. Which put the rape in a whole new light. It wasn't the random act of an Indian-hater. Skeeter Bodine lived for one thing and one thing only. He'd raped Corn Flower because he
liked
it.

“After we take care of Ma, I'll make coffee, if you'd like.”

“I could use some,” Fargo said. “But I can do it myself.”

“No. I need to keep busy. And having someone to talk to will help.” Charity looked at Isaiah, who was still weeping. “My poor brother,” she said, to herself more than Fargo. “What are we to do with you?”

Fargo was thinking about Bodine and the other one. “Tell me,” he said. “Do you have any notion of where I might find those two?”

“They were renting a room in town but I doubt they'd go there. I don't know where they're from originally. They'd pass through Titusville now and then and always made it a point to look Isaiah up. He met them a few years ago when we were in buying supplies and they hit it off.”

Fargo imagined that Skeeter Bodine's first sight of her had a lot to do with it.

“One thing,” Charity said, and gnawed her bottom lip. “I never put much credence in it but I guess I should have. Skeeter used to brag on himself to impress me. One time he showed up a bit tipsy and when we were alone he told me that he'd killed a man.”

“Doesn't surprise me a bit,” Fargo said.

“The thing you should know,” Charity said, “is that he told me he'd shot the man in the back. And he laughed about it.” She squeezed his fingers. “You'd better watch yours or he's liable to do the same to you.”

Solomon Williams was standing on the porch staring down at Marshal Heigstrom with a look of utter defeat and sorrow. He barely reacted when Fargo nudged him.

“Where do you want to put the body?”

“Eh?”

“The body,” Fargo said. “Are you going to leave it lying there?” He didn't care one way or the other. Heigstrom had been a fool. A well-meaning fool, but he'd had no business wearing a badge.

“Oh,” Solomon said numbly. “I suppose the barn would be best. We don't want it in the house. It would only disturb Isaiah and Charity.”

“I'll give you a hand,” Fargo said. He slid his under Heigstrom's shoulders and got a good grip. “Take the other end.”

Nodding, Solomon took hold of both legs.

Together, they lifted and moved down the steps.

Fargo stayed alert. Charity could be right about Skeeter and Pratt circling back. Although, as hurt as Bodine was, that didn't seem likely.

Solomon stared forlornly at the farmhouse. “Patience and me were married twenty-eight years this past June.”

Fargo grunted.

“I loved her. Loved her dearly.”

Fargo wondered why the man was telling him this. He chalked it up to grief.

“Some folks said she was crotchety. But she spoke her mind, that gal, and didn't care who she spoke it to.”

Fargo grunted again.

“I admired that in her. Her spunk. You saw how she stood up to that Bodine.”

And got herself shot, Fargo reflected.

“I don't know what I'll do without her. She was my whole life.”

“You still have Charity and Isaiah.”

“Isaiah,” Solomon said bitterly. “Patience shouldn't have coddled him like she did. But I can't hold it against her. It was her nature to protect those she cared for.”

Fargo was walking backward and glanced over his shoulder at the barn. The door, he saw, had been left half-open.

“Do you have any children?” the farmer unexpectedly asked.

“I hope not but I might.”

“How can you not know? Don't tell me you're one of those who is fond of fallen doves and other ladies of loose repute, as Patience used to call them?”

“More than fond,” Fargo admitted.

“I only ever knew Patience,” Solomon said. “She was all I ever wanted.”

They were almost to the barn. Fargo shifted his hands to get a better grip.

“Say, what's that?” Solomon said, looking past him. “Be careful or you'll trip.”

Fargo stopped and looked behind him. Almost at his feet lay a sprawled form. “It's your dog.”

“What?” Solomon suddenly let go of the marshal's legs and they thumped to the ground. Rushing up, he knelt. “Killer? My God. His throat has been slit.”

Fargo set the marshal down.

“Damn Bodine and that Pratt, anyhow,” Solomon said. “They had no cause to do this. Killer knew them from all the times they've been here. Hell, Bodine used to like to pet him and have him fetch a stick.”

“He did?” Fargo said, and a silent warning jangled.

“I'm not a violent man but if I could get my hands on those two. . . .” Solomon stopped and muttered something under his breath.

Fargo cocked his head. He'd heard the slightest of sounds and now he spied movement. Instinct galvanized him into throwing himself at Williams and shoving him flat even as the night exploded with rifle fire.

“What in the world?” Solomon bleated.

Streaking his Colt from its holster, Fargo fired at the muzzle flashes. With his other hand he gripped Solomon and pushed him at the barn door. “Get inside!”

Crabbing on his hands and knees, the farmer made it in.

Fargo followed, keeping low. Once behind the door, he rose.

“They came back,” Solomon fumed. “They murdered my wife and the marshal and they have the gall to come back and try to finish us off.”

“I don't think it's them,” Fargo said. He was probing the night but it was deathly still.

“Then who?”

“Cuchillo Colorado.”

“The Apache? Why would he be here?”

“Cuchillo Colorado is after Bodine and Pratt and Isaiah, remember?” Fargo said while continuing to seek some sign of the warriors.

“Yes, but what I meant was, how could he have found where we live?” Solomon said, and stiffened. “My son! They'll try to hurt Isaiah.” And with that, he raced into the open yelling at the top of his lungs, “Isaiah! Isaiah! The Apaches are here!”

“Don't!” Fargo yelled. Swearing, he ran after him. “Get down, damn you!”

A rifle boomed and it was as if Solomon had slammed into a wall. He clutched at his chest, screamed, “Isaiah!” and crumpled.

Fargo caught him. Life had already faded and the body was limp. He flattened, expecting shots to be directed at him.

Instead, inside the farmhouse, Charity Williams screamed in terror.

Fargo levered erect and dashed for the house. He zigzagged to make himself harder to hit and was puzzled by why he wasn't shot at.

On reaching the porch he took the steps in a bound. Flinging the door wide, he charged down the hall to the parlor. He was being reckless but it couldn't be helped. If the Apaches got their hands on Isaiah, well, so be it. But Charity was another matter.

He reached the parlor and did more swearing.

Patience Williams lay where he had last seen her. A chair had been overturned and there were fresh drops of blood on the floor leading to the hall and down it toward the kitchen.

Fargo flew. The drops continued through the kitchen to the back door. He hurtled out and turned right and left, but no one, nothing.

Fury boiled in his veins. He tilted his head and listened intently but once again, nothing.

First Skeeter Bodine and Pratt had gotten away, and now this.

Going after the Apaches in the dark would be pointless. The smart thing to do was wait until daylight. But the mere thought of waiting that long, of an innocent girl like Charity in the clutches of Cuchillo Colorado and Culebra Negro, made him want to mount up and search anyway.

Suddenly Fargo had a chilling thought. The Ovaro! He'd tied the stallion out in back of the barn. What if the Apaches had found it?

Whirling, Fargo sprinted like a madman around the house and past Solomon's body. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw the stallion was where he'd left it, its ears pricked from all the commotion. Running over, he untied it and vaulted onto the saddle.

He should ride to the house or maybe go into the barn and stay there until dawn broke, but instead he rode in a wide circle, listening.

As he neared the west side of the house he was sure he heard faint hoofbeats. Since Skeeter and Pratt had gone south, it must be the Apaches. Only they hadn't had horses the last time he saw them. Given that they were masters at stealing them, that meant nothing.

Hoping he wasn't making a mistake, Fargo headed west. He held to a trot and stopped every now and then. Each time he did, far to the west hooves drummed. If it was the Apaches, they were being uncommonly careless. Or it could be that now that they had Isaiah and the girl, they were anxious to get as far away as they could before word spread and the whole countryside was aroused.

Fargo pressed on. An hour passed, and then two.

It was obvious the Apaches were making for the end of the valley and the open country beyond. Once there, they could lose themselves in the vastness of terrain they knew so well.

Fatigue nipped at Fargo but he shrugged it off. He'd rest when this was over, not before.

A pink fringe of sky, herald to the new day, found him amid dry hills dotted by boulders and stone monoliths.

He kept scouring the ground, and as a golden arch was dimming the stars, he found tracks. When he saw how many, he drew rein to study them.

He counted six different horses. None were shod. Instead of four warriors to deal with, he now had six. Where the other two came from, he had no idea.

Fargo drew his Colt and inserted a sixth cartridge. Normally, like a lot of frontiersmen and gun hands, he kept only five in the cylinder so the hammer rested on an empty chamber, a precaution for safety's sake. But now he reckoned he'd need that extra cartridge before too long.

The Apaches had made no attempt to hide their trail. Yet another puzzlement. Or it could be that with the valley behind them, they figured they were safe.

Overconfidence wasn't an exclusive trait of the white man.

Fargo was thankful they hadn't stopped yet. Charity would be safe until they did. Even then, when it came to their enemies, Apaches liked to toy with them like cats toyed with mice. It might be a while before they got around to doing to her what had been done to Corn Flower.

Or so he hoped.

The middle of the morning came and went and still the Apaches pressed on.

Fargo was beginning to think they would ride the whole day through. At least they'd slowed to a walk, which spared the Ovaro.

The sun was a yellow furnace in the vault of sky when the stallion raised its head and stared to the northwest.

Fargo looked but didn't see anything except higher hills. Slowing, he cautiously advanced and soon discovered that the Apaches had reined toward them.

He had a hunch he was near the end of the chase. From here on out he couldn't afford a mistake.

The tracks wound deeper in.

The Apaches had been riding in single file and never once did a warrior break off and climb to the top of a hill to check their back trail. More of that overconfidence.

He was surprised when he smelled smoke. Drawing rein, he dismounted, yanked the Henry from the saddle scabbard, and was about to stalk forward when he remembered to remove his spurs. The slightest jingle could give him away.

As silently as possible, Fargo went up the slope of the nearest hill. About halfway he crouched and slowly worked around until he could see the lay of the land ahead.

Not quite fifty yards from the hill was an oval basin. The sides were steep and littered with small stones except for a twenty-foot section that had buckled, creating a dirt ramp to the bottom.

Fargo wondered why the Apaches had picked there to stop. A glimmer of water amid some boulders gave him the answer. It was a tank, one of the many secret watering places known only to the Apaches.

Six weary horses stood with their heads hanging. As for the Apaches, they had kindled a small fire and four of the six had squatted around it and were talking and at ease.

Cuchillo Colorado was there, and Culebra Negro, too.

That fire bothered Fargo. The only reason to make one in the heat of the day was to cook but he saw no evidence of dead game.

He didn't see the captives and that bothered him more. Then a fifth Apache appeared, his rifle leveled at the captives he was leading from the tank amid the boulders.

Only there weren't two captives, as Fargo expected. There were four.

Charity came first, her wrists bound behind her back, her head down and her hair over her face. After her stumbled Isaiah. It was plain he was scared clean through.

The other two captives were a surprise, although in hindsight, Fargo reckoned they shouldn't be. The Apaches must have arrived at the farm earlier than he'd thought and been watching when Skeeter Bodine and Pratt made their break.

Now both were in the hands of the vengeful warrior whose daughter they had violated.

Pratt glared defiantly at his captors and snarled something at the warrior holding the rifle.

Skeeter moved as if drunk. The whole front of his shirt was red with the blood he'd lost, and he was as pale as paper.

Cuchillo Colorado rose and smiled. Walking up to Charity, he cupped her chin. Wisely, she didn't fight him. He made a remark that caused the other Apaches to laugh. Then he stepped to Isaiah and reached for his chin but Isaiah jerked back in fear.

Glowering, Cuchillo Colorado cuffed him so hard, Isaiah's legs almost buckled.

Pratt met glare with glare.

Skeeter Bodine didn't even raise his head when Cuchillo Colorado moved to him. The Apache put his hand on the hilt of his knife but didn't draw it. Whatever he said brought grim countenances to the rest of the warriors.

Fargo wouldn't want to be in Bodine's boots. Apaches were masters at torturing an enemy. They could draw it out for hours. For days, in some instances. He imagined that by the time Cuchillo Colorado was done, Skeeter Bodine would be worse than Samuels had been.

Fargo would like to wait until nightfall and then slip in but there was no telling how long the Apaches would hold off on Charity. Culebra Negro, in fact, was looking at her as if she were a prime slice of beef and he was half starved.

The captives were made to sit. Isaiah immediately threw himself flat and whimpered and cried.

Keeping low, Fargo scrambled back until he was out of sight, and stood. He aimed to sneak to the basin and drop as many as he could with the Henry. If he downed three or four of them before they knew what hit them, he stood a chance.

He was almost to the Ovaro when he realized the stallion was staring up the slope he'd just descended. Staring at something or someone above him.

Fargo went to turn just as a battering ram slammed between his shoulder blades.